


Sweet

by adobochan



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adobochan/pseuds/adobochan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichigo dreams about peaches sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Written on tumblr initially. Just a cross-post. :)

He doesn’t know what it is but there’s always been something about Rukia.

It’s not anything that she’s recently changed, like her haircut; he’s used to it by now. Actually Ichigo thinks he might like it better than her old one, the way it dances across cheekbones and sharpens her pretty face. Not that she’s pretty, he tells himself, ignoring the heating along his neck as he watches her out of the corner of his eye.

It shouldn’t be this hard to concentrate. He’s just finishing up some homework (Kami, how has it piled up so high? Doesn’t saving the universe count towards any kind of leniency?), nothing that requires much more than minimal effort. He’s smart, he knows that, so why can’t he stop staring at Rukia doing absolutely nothing of importance on his bed?

_It’s those damn shorts_ , he curses, clenching his eyes closed and tightening a grip on his pen. Because they’re cut far too high to be comfortable. Seriously, how can she wear them? And the way she’s lying down, legs akimbo as she stretches out her meager height, doesn’t help his case. He tries not to dwell on the fact that her tank top has ridden up, her arms held above her face as she giggles over the manga she’s reading.

Ichigo can’t help but take in skin the color of ivory and how it covers sinewy muscle, an attribute she’s gained from decades of training. One would think Rukia might be little more than skin and bones but he’d testify otherwise. He’s carried her on his back enough times to know the feel of her, those small hands clutching at his shoulders, hiding strength even he hated acknowledging sometimes. Because she’d never need his protection and he hated how she would fight against the only thing he could do for her.

For a moment his thoughts are broken when she stretches upwards, revealing the expanse of her toned abdomen and Ichigo can literally feel the sweat bead along his temples. His eyes go against any courtesy he would’ve given another girl and followed the movement, revealing her cute, little bellybutton and the outline of her upper abs, as she arches her back with a sigh.

A whining sound gets caught in her throat, followed by a deliciously low gasp as she flattens back against his covers and, dammit, he should _not_ be turned on by this. Nor should he wonder if his covers will smell like her afterwards, something for him to remember her by when she disappears again for who-knows-how-long.

It’s not something he wants to think about because the memories of their separation come back and haunt him on occasion, lonely nights when he wondered if Rukia ever visited. Hell, if she ever cared at all. Because, deep down in his subconscious, he had. More than even he was aware of, and his mind and body had been more than willing to explain just how much.

Visions of her stole into his dreams, often enough that Ichigo couldn’t remember any dry spell longer than a few weeks. They’d started innocently enough, of her laughter and her voice and her sad eyes before she told him goodbye. Of those awkward moments and heartfelt ones, and all the little details he hadn’t appreciated when she was near. It made him feel as if he was missing his right limb when he woke up, a phantom ache in his chest when he realized that day had broken his slumber,

However, Ichigo couldn’t be sure when they started to shift.

Soft smiles were replaced by slick lips, amethyst eyes slanted in a perpetual come-hither. In his dreams he was no strong man, not when Rukia clutched a fistful of his hair and kissed him like she wanted to be his oxygen. Pressed up against his body, she would straddle his waist and moan both tender words and pleased gasps as she dueled against his tongue.

And just like his eyes in real life, his dream hands wandered without any of his usual self-control. Hidden by the shadows of night, he’s petted her soft calves, dragged his fingers against the back of her thighs and made her groan helplessly, as he smirks into the sound. He’s kissed the pulse in her neck, tonguing at the muscle as she tilts her head back and lets him. He’s stripped her of whatever imaginary clothing he’s dressed her in and laid her down, admiring how the moonlight makes her skin shine as she smiles up at him, half innocent, half seductress.

In those nightly encounters, he imagines those modest but perky breasts, the tips peaked with pink nipples. And he plays her sweet body perfectly, swirling his tongue around the top before suckling it in as she cries and pleads with him. He loves how she can’t form the words, just pushes her chest further into his mouth and rubs against him as much as she can, as if offering herself was a more adequate way to communicate. He doesn’t remember ever misunderstanding.

Sometimes he’d let his hands trail downwards and palm that perfect bottom, perfectly peach-shaped and sensitive and, god, he really shouldn’t be imagining it now that he knows what it looks like. But he can’t help it when he imagines how she’d rock her hips against his, hoping for friction and for him to take a hint and let his fingers dip between her thighs and—

“I’m thirsty!” Ichigo stands up abruptly, pushing against his desk and knocking over his chair. Surprised, Rukia shoots up and glares over at him, taking in his hunched shoulders and and tightened form.

“Umm, okay… Can you get me something too?” she asks as he makes his way over to the door. When he stops but refuses to look back at her, the shinigami can only raise a brow at his odd behavior.

“What do you want?” If she notices the choked sound of his voice, she doesn’t say anything.

Tapping her chin thoughtfully, Rukia speaks as she props up the pillow and leans against it. “Yuzu-chan said you guys have those interesting, rectangular juice boxes. Do you have the peach-flavored kind?”

In that instant, Ichigo can literally feel something inside him snap.

“W-why would we have anything like that?! We’re not a bunch of perverts or anything, Rukia!”

Ignoring her indignant squawk, he slams the door behind him and rushes down the stairs, covering his face that’s colored with damning embarrassment. How was he going to explain that reaction to her later? Hell, how was he going to function around _peaches_ for the rest of his human life? Ichigo refused to spend the rest of his life getting turned on by fruit. Wasn’t he enough of a freak already?


End file.
